Kill Me Again. Maggie Shayne

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ

      “Can I keep this?” Olivia asked, holding up the business card.

      “Yeah. Go on in. I’ll call you later,” Bryan said.

      “I’d like a word with you, Olivia, on your way out,” Carrie said.

      Olivia nodded and turned to the patient-room door. Her heart was lodged in her throat—because how was she supposed to anticipate her first conversation with someone she’d admired so much for so long, especially under these conditions? She was nervous, not wanting to make things worse for him. But she supposed any information would be welcome, so she opened the door and walked into his room, then crossed to his bedside.

      “Hi,” she said. “My name is Olivia. And I’m pretty sure yours is Aaron.”

      2

      Aaron.

      He’d expected a rush of memory to flood into his brain once he knew his name. But it didn’t. There wasn’t even a mild sense of recognition. Not of the name she spoke. Not of the woman, either. And he didn’t see how any conscious, breathing male could forget a woman who looked like she did.

      She was a classic beauty. Dark brown eyes and thick black lashes. Sun-kissed skin, sable hair, even if it was all bundled up. She had a slender body and luscious, full lips. And best of all, she didn’t even seem aware of her looks. She didn’t dress to show them off, that was for sure.

      Beyond that, though, she was the first person who’d walked into this room that he felt glad to see. He was actually interested in talking to her. The others had been boring. Not one of them had any useful information to share, but they’d all been full of questions he couldn’t answer. Doctors, nurses, cops.

      Damn, he hated cops.

      He didn’t know how he knew that, or why he hated them, but he knew it was true. It had to be true, as uncomfortable as he’d been with the one who’d been in here grilling him.

      Someone had shot him. Shot him. He closed his eyes and thought, yeah, that sort of thing would tend to make a lot of people ask a lot of questions. Personally, it made him feel sick.

      And now there was this…Olivia. She wasn’t a medical professional—unless she was a shrink. And she wasn’t a cop. He knew that for sure, though again, how he knew was a mystery.

      “Olivia,” he said, repeating her name and waiting to see how it felt on his tongue. Familiar? Sadly, no. “Are we…lovers?” he asked.

      Her eyes widened, and the word no burst from her lips before she could give it any thought. A rush of heat suffused her cheeks, and she didn’t meet his eyes.

      He lowered his head as if disappointed, and said, “So we’re just friends, then?”

      She frowned at him, tipping her head to one side and searching his face as she finally caught on. “Are you teasing me? A man in your condition?”

      “My condition isn’t all that bad. Doc Redhead out there tells me I’m fine. Aside from the fact that the only thing in my head right now is a massive ache, I actually feel pretty good for a guy who just took a bullet. And no, I wasn’t teasing. Not entirely. I was hoping to God they finally found someone who knows me. Intimately.” He sighed heavily, told himself to quit with the self-pity and get on with this. “So how do you know me, Olivia?”

      “I don’t,” she said. “I’m sorry, but we’ve never actually met.”

      Nodding, and trying not to literally deflate in disappointment, he said, “Figures. It’s just about in keeping with the way my day’s been going, I guess.”

      He pursed his lips and reminded himself that this poor woman wasn’t the one who’d shot him. Then again, how could he even be sure of that much?

      He looked at her again, and thought, no, she wasn’t the kind to put a bullet in a man. Not like that—not in the back of his head. She was stiff, kind of wary, maybe a little repressed, but not mean. Not a killer.

      “Why don’t you sit down, Olivia, and tell me about myself?”

      “I’ll try.” She moved to the chair beside the bed and adjusted it to a position she liked, a little closer, angled toward him so she could see his face. Then she sat down, her lithe frame folding itself into the chair in a smooth, easy motion. She crossed her legs at the ankles, leaned her knees to one side. “I didn’t expect you to be so…”

      “What? Grouchy? Sarcastic? Getting shot in the head will do that to a guy. Sorry I’m not pouring on the charm.”

      “I understand that,” she said. “It’s just that your books are so—”

      “My books?”

      She bit her lip, then nodded and shifted in the chair. “Maybe I’d better start at the beginning.”

      “Maybe you’d better.” He sat up in the bed, though he’d been told not to.

      “Okay.” Smoothing her skirt over her nicely shaped thighs, she seemed to organize her thoughts. “Okay,” she said again. “I’m Professor Olivia Dupree. I teach English over at the State University of Vermont’s Shadow Falls campus. Shadow Falls—that’s where you are now. I’ve been here for sixteen years, and I’ve been helping to plan this year’s summer fundraiser series for—”

      “Excuse me.” He held up a hand, and she stopped speaking. “I really do want to know all about you at some point, Olivia, but right now, could you get to me?”

      She held his gaze, and hers went stony. “Not if you keep interrupting.”

      So, she had a bit of a temper. Good. He liked that. She wasn’t as tame as she appeared. Sighing, he felt around in the covers for the remote, then pressed a button to raise the bed so he could lean back without being entirely prone. His head felt loads better than when he’d been sitting upright, and he made a mental note that the redheaded doc had been right about that.

      “Where was I?”

      “Summer fundraiser for something or other,” he said.

      “Short-term memory is all right, then?”

      He met her eyes, saw the sarcasm, figured he had it coming. “I’ll try not to interrupt again.”

      She nodded. “It’s all relevant, I promise.”

      He nodded at her to continue.

      “I’ve been reading Aaron Westhaven for years. He’s known to be very reclusive, very private. Still, I used to write to him once a year or so at a P.O. box that was listed in his first novel.”

      “And you think I’m him?” he asked.

      She lowered her head and lifted her brows at the same time, sending him a look that told him he’d interrupted her again.

      “Sorry,” he said. “Continue.”

      “I never heard back, and the address was missing from all the future books. But I kept writing. Every time a new book came out, I would СКАЧАТЬ